


Softly, Softly

by big-time-tired (nilafhiosagam)



Series: Drake General Services [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Age Swap, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Batfamily (DCU), Damian Wayne is Robin, Family Dynamics, Gen, Kinda, Nosebleed, Sickfic, Sort Of, That's Not His Name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:02:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25557037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilafhiosagam/pseuds/big-time-tired
Summary: The year is 1990, and Dick Grayson is currently in between lodgings. (Read: on the streets.) Too bad it's winter in Gotham, of all places. Doubly too bad Dick's got a kid to look after. Triply too bad that said kid has the cold to end all colds.Damian is having a not-so-great evening, all things considered. A thief is proving particularly elusive, his father's moral code is exasperating as always, and it's snowing. Again. He definitely doesn't have the time or patience to deal with children. Not at all.(In which Dick and Jason are kids on the streets, Jason is sick, and Damian ends up having a Moment.)
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Series: Drake General Services [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852012
Comments: 8
Kudos: 111





	Softly, Softly

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet in part of a wider au- set maybe a year after Damian first meets his father, and in the 90's for some unknowable reason. Robins are nearly completely age-swapped. Cross-posted on my tumblr, @bigtimetired

**12 th November 1990**

Winter in Gotham is never easy.

It’s generally agreed that the going gets tough from the end of November to the start of February, and things are- not easy, never easy, but more _doable_ \- up until that point.

It’s early-ish November- the air is getting chilly, there’s frost on the ground in the mornings. It’s starting to get cold and sharp out, though at this point a person could get away with a regular jacket during the day.

It’s the easiest part of a Gotham winter.

Of course, Dick’s little brother doesn’t seem to have gotten this particular memo.

In retrospect, Dick blames himself for not noticing sooner and nipping it in the bud. The signs had been there for god knows how long; the quiet sniffles, late night rasps, sluggish reactions.

But anyway, the point _is_ that Dick didn’t realise earlier, which is what has them where they are now; Jason bundled up in his hoodie and coat, Dick’s scarf and a hat they found lying around, shivering miserably, and Dick sacrificing his own jacket to act as a blanket.

Jason sniffs again and Dick winces- it sounds disconcertingly liquid.

“Don’t need all this,” Jason half-whispers, weakly waving his hand at his sickbed- his usual mattress, and a sofa cushion arranged in order to prop him up against the wall. It’s debatable how long he can actually sit up unassisted at this point.

Dick hums noncommittally and makes sure their meagre rations are within Jason’s reach- half a bottle of water, a squished bar of chocolate, and two tissues. This isn’t good. They need more.

_Is Daly’s still open?_

“’M serious,” Jason insists, and Dick nods.

“Whatever floats your ship.”

Jason blows out a heavy, congested, breath. “’s boat, Dickers.”

“Really? Why?”

Jason frowns for a moment, looking so concerned that Dick regrets asking.

“Dunno,” he admits eventually. “Prob’ly ‘cause it rhymes.”

Jason starts coughing then- a sharp noise which sounds like it’s being pulled out of him. The fit fades as quickly as it started- the ragged breathing and rosy cheeks do not.

Dick hands Jason the water bottle; helps him hold it steady when it becomes clear that his hands are still trembling too badly to do it himself.

When Jason’s breathing regularly again, Dick asks, “How’re you feeling?”, even though he already knows what his little brother will say.

Jason grins, pale green eyes blinking slowly. “On top of the world.”

Dick reaches out and tries to measure Jason’s temperature with his hand. Jason pulls the sort of face that only a ten-year-old can muster but stays put.

Dick frowns- Jason’s kinda clammy.

“Ew,” he says out loud, making a show of wiping his hand off on Jason’s sleeve. Internally he makes up his mind. _I have to go._

Jason grins again and lets out a quiet noise which would ordinarily be a snort. “ _You’re_ ew.”

Dick settles down next to Jason’s mattress, even though he has no intention of staying put for too long.

“Go to sleep, Jay- you’re already nearly there.”

“Am not,” comes the weary reply.

“Uh-huh.”

“F’ck off, Dickolas.”

“Can’t- who else will wipe your nose for you?”

“Asshole,” smiles Jason, eyes already nearly closed. His expression changes then. “You’ll still be here when I wake up, right?”

Dick pauses- takes in the genuine worry wrinkling around Jason’s mouth, the uneven intakes of breath- and comes to the sudden, stomach-churning, realisation that Jason is too sick to be left alone.

It’s with a heavy heart that he abandons his plans to sneak out for a supply run.

“Duh. Now go to sleep, lil’ wing.”

Jason pulls another face, eyes closed now. “Gotta stop callin’ me that.”

“Nah.”

Jason tries to snort again and doesn’t say anything else. Dick keeps perfectly still for what feels like the longest time, watching Jason’s chest rise and fall.

His only reassurance is that, despite the audible wheeze of his lungs, Jason’s breaths are still perfectly regular.

Dick carefully pushes a slightly sweaty curl away from Jason’s face, trying not to focus on how Jason’s usually faint freckles seem a great deal more vivid at the moment.

He’ll be okay.

He has to be.

Jason wakes up around when the air in the attic is getting cool enough for Dick to have to start stretching in an attempt to stay awake; the cold has always made him sleepy.

Jason’s breath stutters, once, twice, and Dick’s head whips around, heart pounding.

Jason’s breath resumes a noticeable pattern, and Jason peers over at Dick.

“Hey,” Dick smiles, trying to project a calm and certainty that he doesn’t feel. “How’re you now?”

Jason swallows, licks his lips. “Hurts,” he whispers, and Dick’s smile drops instantly.

“What does? What hurts Jay?”

Jason shifts slightly, wincing. “Everything.”

With no small amount of dread, Dick lays his hand on Jason’s forehead again.

Jason is burning up.

Dick exhales, and makes Jason drink some water as he thinks.

“Okay,” he says quietly, more to himself than to Jason, “it’s all okay.”

It isn’t really. Dick is nowhere near as calm as he’d like to be- as he _needs_ to be.

He doesn’t know what to do- Jason’s never been this sick before, and Dick isn’t sure what’s wrong; if Jason needs medicine or if he can sleep it off, if they should be seeing a doctor or if they can get by on their own.

It’s a lot for a twelve-year-old to deal with but deal with it he must. For Jason’s sake.

Jason’s had enough water- Dick takes the bottle from him before he accidentally drops it.

“Have some of this,” he says, grabbing the bar of chocolate.

“Not hungry,” says Jason quietly, just as he did the last time Dick offered it.

“I know, Jaybird, but you gotta eat if you want to get better,” Dick says, rubbing Jason’s shoulder carefully. He seems terribly small and breakable all of a sudden.

Jason still doesn’t seem all that convinced about the whole ‘eating’ thing. Dick decides to pull out the big guns.

“Please, Jay.”

Jason nods reluctantly and begins the incredibly long endeavour of eating a bar of chocolate with as little effort as possible.

He’s sneezed a good eight times by the time the wrapper is empty, but Jason looks marginally more awake now and Dick hopes that the pink tinge to his cheeks is a sign of health.

The water is almost gone, the tissues are used up and absolutely disgusting, and they’re completely out of anything the least bit edible.

Jason is still far too hot, still sweating, and now starting to shiver.

_Shit._

Dick doesn’t know all that much about illnesses but he’s fairly sure that shivering like that when you’re not cold at all isn’t a good sign.

“Jay,” Dick tries his hardest to sound both soothing and supremely confident and not at all afraid, “Jay, we don’t have enough things here for you to get better. I’m gonna have to- “

Jason’s eyes widen, and he moves the quickest he has in nearly three days to grab Dick’s wrist in an iron-grip.

 _“No,”_ he hisses, “no, you _promised_ you’d stay. You _promised.”_

“Jay,” says Dick softly, “I- “

 _“Please,_ Dick, please don’t go- I don’t wanna be alone- _please- “_

There are actual tears welling up in Jason’s eyes all of a sudden, and Dick’s heart twists horribly.

 _“Hey,”_ he says gently, “hey- I’m not gonna leave you alone, okay? I- uh- “

Dick swallows and then makes what many people might call a terrible decision.

“I’m gonna take you with me,” he says as if he had planned this all along, “we just gotta pop out to the store and back- get some more water, some tissues, all that fun stuff. Okay?”

Jason relaxes, though he doesn’t let go of Dick. “Okay,” he half-whispers. “Just- just don’t leave me.”

“I promise.”

Rather predictably, things are not going well.

Dick’s eyes are sore and gritty, and he can’t quite tell if his hands are shaking or not. He has Jason tucked under his arm in an attempt to keep him warm and stop him from tipping over- easier said than done on the ice-laced paths.

It’s dark out now, and the streetlights in this part of town are few and far between. Jason’s weighty breaths seem to echo in the mostly empty streets- they’re gonna start attracting attention soon.

“Dick,” mumbles Jason all of a sudden, “we nearly there yet?”

No. No they are not. All the nearest stores are closed and they’re starting to get uncomfortably far from home.

“Uh-huh,” whispers Dick, “just another few minutes, okay?”

“’kay.”

Jason lets out a tremendous sniff then, and Dick rubs his arm absently.

It’s way colder than Dick thought it would be- every breath in is sharp, every breath out creates a thick plume of condensation.

Dick isn’t good with cold- his head hurts, his chest aches, and all he wants to do is go to sleep for a while. When it’s really, really, cold, his nose bleeds.

“’m tired.”

“Me too, lil’ wing. Nearly there.”

“Can we sit down? Just for a second?”

Jason sounds exhausted.

Dick glances around carefully- no unsavoury characters too close by, though they’d be better off stepping in out of view.

“Yeah- we’ll sit down just around the corner for a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

The two of them make their ungainly way around the corner- off the main street and into a more secluded area.

There’s a deep, surprisingly unoccupied, doorway here- Dick tucks his little brother into the corner in an attempt to block some of the cold out. He pulls off his jacket and gives it to Jason as a blanket.

Jason leans his head on Dick’s shoulder and lets out slow, heavy, breaths.

Dick looks up at the artificially clouded, orange-tinted sky and misses the stars for the umpteenth time.

Has Jason ever seen the stars?

Dick’s eyes are very, very, tired.

_Don’t you dare fall asleep, Grayson._

There’s a song playing from a building nearby- words muffled, melody barely audible. A slow, soft, sad song.

Dick breathes in deep, lets it out slowly.

He watches his breath cloud and float up, up, up, until he can’t see it anymore.

“Dick?”, asks Jason drowsily.

“Yeah?”, Dick whispers back, still staring up at the sky.

“I don’t wanna get up.”

“Me neither, Jay. ‘nother minute?”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet again, Dick knowing full well that they need to get up and keep moving but not quite able to do anything with that knowledge just yet.

Something begins to drift down through the orange-haze; Dick watches it distantly, rubs tiredly at his runny nose.

A feathery speck of snow falls softly to the ground before them.

Then another.

Then another.

_Shit._

It’s not dry enough for the snow to lodge, but that won’t make their unfinished journey any less miserable.

Then there’s a thump from above- too heavy and solid to be anything other than a person.

Then another thump, and another.

_Double shit._

Damian is having a reasonably good evening, all things considered.

Is it colder than anyone would like? Yes, yes it is.

Did Kent call earlier like he said he would? No, no he did not.

But Damian isn’t letting any of that bother him- there’s crime to fight, justice to uphold, etcetera, etcetera.

Besides, he’s rather enjoying knocking the stuffing out of the would-be jewel thief before him.

Or at least, he _would be,_ if the degenerate would ever show some consideration and _stop running_ _away_.

_Coward._

(Damian’s evening is, perhaps, not going as well as he is trying to convince himself it is.)

The thief clears the gap between two buildings with surprising ease, seeing as he has no grapple gun to support him.

Damian tails him still, grip tight on the non-lethal staff Father had insisted on.

They had argued about it (again) only earlier that evening, actually.

It’s understandable that Father would prefer that _Drake_ abstain from lethal force- _Drake_ hasn’t been trained in the art of death from birth, after all. _Drake_ can barely be trusted to tell one end of a blade from the other.

But _Damian_ is a master- the best of his generation, it had always been whispered. _Damian_ can be trusted to kill quickly and efficiently- or slowly and painfully, as required.

 _Damian_ is more than capable of-

The thief swerves suddenly and Damian copies- but the rooftop is covered with a thin layer of treacherous frost and Damian perhaps hadn’t been paying quite as much attention to his surroundings as he should have been- what would Grandfather say?

Damian stumbles, temporarily drops to one knee, before regaining his balance.

It’s a tiny slip- a microscopic mistake in the grand scheme of things- but it’s enough.

America has made him soft.

The thief is further ahead than he should be- he hops down to the next building, and then down again into a dingy alleyway.

Damian continues his pursuit- trying his best to force down the little bubble of desperation- he _must_ catch up in time- he can’t disappoint Father- he _can’t._

Damian drops into the alleyway, head automatically snapping to the left to see the thief racing away. They’re on better terrain now- Damian can catch up. He _can._

It’s then that he hears it; a quiet sniff.

Almost against his will, Damian turns his head away from the criminal’s retreating figure.

There are two people huddled together in the doorway next to him.

Two very small people watching him with wide, frightened, eyes.

Children- younger than Drake- tiny and alone and shaking with fear, cold, or both.

Instinctively, Damian reaches out to them and they flinch.

_They’re afraid of him._

To the best of his knowledge, Damian has never frightened children before. The other children in the League might have been wary of him, but they were never afraid. Drake might have been uneasy when they first met, but soon irritation outweighed all other emotion.

But now one child is clearly trying to shield the other from him- as if Damian is likely to snap and rage.

As if Damian is likely to hurt them.

Something about this does not sit well with Damian- perhaps it’s the novelty of the situation, perhaps it’s the not-very-good day he’s been having, perhaps it’s Father’s philosophy winding around the recesses of his mind.

He remembers, very suddenly, that there are two parts to the Batman’s mission statement, though Damian does tend to only consider the first half.

_To punish the guilty and protect the innocent._

Appearances can be deceptive, and youth is no indicator of nature, but Damian is pretty sure that it is the innocent who are staring up at him in mute terror.

He glances after the jewel thief- still visible at the mouth of the alley. If he ran now, he could probably catch up.

But there are two children alone in Gotham on a cold night who are absolutely terrified of him and seem rather lacking in the resources department.

Damian takes in how underdressed the older child is- his full-body shivers and bloody nose. The other child is bundled up and mostly hidden from view but from what little Damian can see, he doesn’t seem all that healthy.

It’s snowing.

Damian looks after the criminal- the guilty who must be punished- and comes to a decision.

He sheathes his staff, drops his shoulders, and looks down at the children, trying very hard to radiate non-threatening energy.

He isn’t sure if it’s working.

“What are you doing out here?”, Damian asks, trying to imitate the soft voice that Father sometimes uses when Damian is…uneasy.

The older child swipes at his nose, doesn’t seem to notice the blood left on his hand.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, still leaning away from Damian.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Damian counters, still trying to do the Voice. “It _looks_ like you’re planning on staying there for a while, and not by choice either.”

The boy looks at him for a long moment, before admitting quietly, “Maybe.”

Damian mentally pats himself on the back for this minor victory.

_Protect the innocent._

“Do you- “, Damian starts, but he is interrupted by the second child breaking his silence to let out an extremely unpleasant-sounding, wet, hacking, cough.

The first child turns away from Damian immediately to rub his brother’s back.

When the fit subsides about two minutes later, Damian catches the tiny whisper of “You okay, Jaybird?”, and the even tinier, breathless, “Yeah.”

“You need to see a doctor,” says Damian matter-of-factly.

“I know,” mutters the older boy, not looking at Damian.

“I know where to find a clinic with a fantastic doctor,” Damian offers, surprising himself with the realisation that he is willing to take these two all the way over to Dr Hopkins’ if necessary.

“We can’t- “, the boy starts, conflict clearly playing out on his face. Then his expressions hardens. “We don’t need your _charity_.”

Damian aches with the urge to point out that they very clearly need _someone’s_ charity, but resists. That sort of barb rarely goes over well with Drake, never mind two virtual strangers.

He sighs. “I know you don’t.”

They’re in a stalemate then- Damian (for reasons which not even he entirely understands) unwilling to leave them as he found them, and neither of the two boys willing to accept his help.

Damian crouches down in a bid to make himself less intimidating, though both boys watch him cautiously. The older one tightens his grip on his brother.

“Do you know who I am?”, Damian asks quietly.

The children stare at him for a moment, eyes skittering all over his uniform and hopefully lingering on the bat symbol.

“You work with Batman,” whispers the smaller boy hoarsely.

Damian nods. “I do. And what does Batman do?”

“Fight crime?”, offers the sick child.

“And?”

The boy with the bloody nose sighs. “And help people who need it. Which we _don’t,”_ he hastens to add.

Damian looks at them levelly and then repeats something that Pennyworth has told him quietly time after time, though Damian has never truly listened to the words until now.

“Everyone needs help sometimes, and everyone is _allowed_ to get help.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, both children watching him with wide, considering, eyes.

“We can’t pay the doctor,” says the older boy, slouching.

“She won’t charge you.”

“You sure?”, whispers the sick one, squinting at Damian.

He nods, which seems to be enough for the sick boy.

“Le’ss go, Dick.”

The newly identified Dick looks at his brother again. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“I can think of plenty of reasons,” mutters Dick, before sighing. “Alright then, let’s go get our organs stolen.”

“She won’t take your organs,” reassures Damian.

“That’s what they all say.”

Dick stands up stiffly and rubs at his nose again. He notices the blood this time, but merely frowns at his hand in response.

“What happened?”, Damian asks, though Dick only shrugs before pulling on the coat previously wrapped around his little brother.

There’s a bit of difficulty then, as the younger boy very shakily stands up and nearly falls over, though Dick manages to save him and prop him upright under his arm.

Standing up now, it’s clear that the boys can’t be any older than about eleven and neither of them looks like he has regular meals.

“Lead ahead,” says Dick.

“Lead on,” corrects his brother tiredly. “’r go ahead.”

Dick shrugs again.

Damian starts walking, though he’s only made it a few feet before realising that the boys are still behind him and only slowly shuffling forward.

They both look exhausted, and whilst Dick may be in better shape than his brother, he’s still trembling ever so slightly and walking stiffly.

Damian tilts his head for a moment, considering.

Then he stands on Dick’s free side- he thinks he knows better than to go near Dick’s younger brother given the sharp look Dick keeps giving him- and props him under his arm.

“Let’s go then,” says Damian, pretending not to see the strange looks he is being given.

Neither boy says anything in response but the three of them begin to make their achingly slow way forward, ungainly as one might expect such a convoy to be.

Damian can feel how horrifyingly cold Dick is under his arm and doesn’t even want to _consider_ how cold his brother probably is.

He twists his cape around with his free hand and drapes it around the other two’s shoulders without breaking stride.

“Thanks,” mumbles Dick.

His brother makes a hoarse noise that may or may not also be a thank you.

“You’re welcome,” says Damian uncomfortably.

People do not often thank him.

(Damian wonders, briefly, if the children would have been willing to trust him at all if he had been carrying a more deadly weapon and doesn’t like how the answer makes him feel.)

They continue to walk in silence.

It’s going to be a long night.

Many, many, hours later Damian is standing at his father’s side in the Batcave, as his father types away on the computer.

Drake is somewhere nearby, polishing something- Damian can hear his breathing.

Pennyworth is on Father’s other side, dutifully copying down a wall of text from a smaller screen- Damian can’t hear his breathing.

“The thief escaped,” Father says. It is and isn’t a question.

Damian nods, though adds, “I believe he will strike again in the financial district sometime in the next two weeks,” by way of a meagre apology.

“You last reported in from Leslie’s clinic.”

“Yes.”

There is a long pause, as Damian tries to compose his thoughts and Father waits- ever patient.

“I had to protect the innocent,” he says eventually.

Father stops his typing and Drake stops pretending to be doing whatever it is that he’s been doing.

“Oh?”, asks Father, the closest Damian has ever gotten to a ‘go on’ from him.

“There were two children,” says Damian, not looking at his Father. “They needed medical attention, amongst other things. I found them as I pursued the thief and- “

“And you chose to protect the innocent rather than punish the guilty,” Father finishes.

Damian nods. “I did.”

Father actually turns his head to look at him, which means that Damian’s gaze is drawn- magnetised- to his.

“I’m proud of you,” Father says, voice warm and soft.

There is a lump in Damian’s throat all of a sudden.

He nods and chokes out, “Thank you.”

They stay like that a moment, Father’s calm blue eyes on his own teary green.

And then Father says, “Jon Kent called whilst you were out.”

Damian finally looks away from his father. “Oh?”

“He wanted to ask you about your chemistry project.”

Damian clicks his tongue. “I told him I’d tell him tomorrow.”

“Best go to bed then- it’s been a long day.”

Damian nods again. “Goodnight Father. Goodnight Pennyworth.”

He pauses for a very long moment, before eventually adding, “Goodnight, Drake.”

Drake says from somewhere that may or may not be in the rafters, “Goodnight Damian,” and then Damian goes to bed.

Damian falls asleep and dreams of softly falling snow and orange-tinted skies and part of an old, slow, song.

 _  
_ _Softly, softly turn the key_  
And open up my heart.


End file.
